


The Forever Man

by journeycat



Series: The Cavall Clan [7]
Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Protector of the Small - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Future Fic, Gen, Hero Worship, Non-canon character - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:26:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/journeycat/pseuds/journeycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A knight's name can be remembered for generations, written down in history, but only a true knight lives forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Forever Man

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Wyldon Winter at Goldenlake in November of 2009. Won an honorable mention in the Piercefic competition at Goldenlake in October 2010.

It was strange to think that decades ago his father knelt on this very floor, but was struck with a different sword by a different king forgotten to his young generation. He wondered if his father’s experience was similar to his own: the hard stone beneath his knees, the sight of his king’s expensive boots, the bruises and fading remnants of the pain of his Ordeal, and the blessed feeling of triumphant exhaustion. Yes, strange to think his father as a youth once bowed his head before King Roald so many years ago, and a thousand and one knights in between.

Jonathan struck each of his shoulders with his gleaming sword, hard enough to hurt, and then gently tapped his crown. “You are dubbed Sir Lancelot of Cavall,” he said solemnly, his voice carrying throughout the hall. “Remember your vows and service to this Crown. Remember your promise of chivalry.”

 _I’ll never forget, sire_ , Lance thought fiercely. _Never_.

The hall erupted into applause. He was the last of his year-mates to be knighted and his friends discarded any shred of dignity to whoop and holler louder than anyone. But it was not them his eyes sought—it was his family.

Lance found them instantly. They did not clap as raucously as his peers or make a spectacle of themselves, for they were a self-possessed lot, but he could read the pride in their bearing. There was his mother, who to all outward appearances calmly maintained her Yamani Mask, but she was his mother and he saw how tremulous her hold was, saw her over-bright eyes.

Of course, Cal was the exception—he was three years his junior and had yet to learn any sense of discipline, and he was already leaping gleefully toward him for a brother’s clumsy hung. Isa was a sentimental thirteen and wept through her Mask, silly girl. Little Gaheris, born late and unexpected but no less welcome to Cavall, bounced in his seat and waved cheerfully. 

And then there was his father, grey and weathered and bravest of all the men who served the Crown. His eyes were dry and his face relaxed with simple quiet pride, but his respect meant more to him than anyone else’s. _Father, I hope I brought honor to our house_.

People swarmed him on all sides, offering enthusiastic congratulations. Cal hung on his neck and pounded his back until it throbbed. Lance couldn’t help but puff up his chest, just a little, and hold his new shield so that it caught the light just so. It made his victory that much more gratifying when he caught sight of Her Highness Princess Lianokami’s glowing face, elegant and royal in all her sharp-honed beauty. 

The effect was sweetly ruined when Isa and Little Gaheris raced through the thinning crowd and threw themselves at him. Lance staggered, barely keeping his balance, and then swept them in a tight hug. His sister was such a precious thing, all coltish legs and ferocious skill; she was not a page, but he had no doubt it was not long in coming. And of all his siblings, Little Gaheris alone inherited his mother’s dreamer’s hazel eyes—he was perhaps too gentle for the life of knighthood. 

_Father would like it if he stayed at Cavall and reared the hounds and horses, I think_ , Lance thought. _Marg and Owen would certainly like that. Jesslaw just doesn’t breed them like we do_.

“Well, look at you,” a familiar, musical voice murmured. “You wear your shield well.”

“Am I as dashing as all the ballads claim I am?” Lance asked loftily.

“They hardly do you justice,” Keladry teased.

He kissed her cheek fondly and took the opportunity to whisper in her ear, “Thank you, Mama. For everything.”

When he pulled away, droplets glistened on her long, curling lashes, but did not fall.

“My father would rejoice to see Cavall knights continue on,” Wyldon said gravely. He clapped his son’s shoulder and shook it a bit. “Well done, Sir Lancelot.”

Wyldon did not give compliments lightly and neither did he appreciate incessant lingering over them. It took all of Lance’s considerable will to say steadily, “Thank you, Father.” 

“You should thank me, my lord Cavall,” a man drawled behind him. “He was never this respectful until I whipped him into shape.”

“It must have been difficult,” Cal said seriously.

“Hold your tongue, Accalon,” Wyldon reproved.

Zahir chuckled as he moved up beside Lance. “You raise interesting sons, sir,” he commented, smiling slightly. “I’m sure Sir Ansil enjoys every moment spent with _you_ , Squire.”

At least Cal had the grace to blush. But Lance only thought, _He still calls him “sir.”_

“Lance, I’m having a small get-together in my rooms to celebrate,” Zahir continued. “Your sister Lady Priestess Cathrea could not escape her Temple duties, but she sent some heavily charmed amulets for you that I dare not touch. Goddess magic is rather touchy, you see.”

That was disappointing, but he saw Cathrea almost as much as Margarry; he was much more interested in Sunarine, who rarely visited. Eiralys...not so much. She had never been unkind to him, but she treated Keladry rudely and for that he would not forgive her. She was the only one he called _half-sister_.

“Will Liano be there?” Isa asked.

“Of course, my lady,” Zahir replied, smiling down at her. He had always had a soft spot for her—in the beginning of Lance’s squiring, when she was still young, he would bring her Bazhir trinkets. He shot a sly glance toward Lance. “She seemed most eager to give Lance his gift.”

He and Keladry chuckled as Lance carefully slid on his Mask. Wyldon looked startled, as though he had just come to some kind of shocking conclusion. 

“Come,” Zahir said, “I'll show you to my rooms. No doubt the guests are impatient.”

“Then by no means should we keep them waiting,” Wyldon said. “However, I need to borrow my son first, just for a couple minutes.”

“As you wish. Keladry, I guess it’s just the two of us.”

“And me,” piped Little Gaheris.

“Oh, but who could forget the rest of the Cavall clan? All of you come with us, and my lord Cavall and Lance will join us shortly.”

Wyldon drew up beside Lance as they watched Keladry and Zahir’s retreating backs, the other three children following. Isa and Cal were already bickering. He tugged meanly on her long brown braid.

“He’ll grow up eventually, I suppose,” Lance mused.

His father frowned. “He’s nearing sixteen. It’s far past time for him to learn a little discipline. Even Isolde and Gaheris have more control, and they’re just children.”

“Don’t let Isa hear that. She thinks thirteen is quite old enough, thank you, and I’m not about to argue with someone who can use a pigsticker nearly as well as Mother.”

“She is rather talented with it, isn’t she?”

“I prefer the term dangerous.”

Wyldon looked vaguely amused. “Like mother, like daughter.”

They shared a grin at that. 

It took longer than Lance would have liked to escape the hall—nothing would do until people had congratulated him at least twice, even though he hadn't the vaguest notion who half of them were. Wyldon politely greeted friends but never paused for very long, gently guiding Lance through the throng until they reached the empty corridor.

Lance followed his father along a familiar route—Wyldon had had the same rooms for years, and he had walked this path ever since he was a toddling boy.

“Here,” Wyldon said, and allowed Lance to step through first.

It was a practical room, bare and austere but very much Wyldon if one knew where to look for the details. There was a watercolor painting that was oddly pretty for all its bright shapeless colors, a testament to Gaheris' artistic talents. His desk was lined with glittering, worthless rocks that Isa brought him when she was younger. Lance smiled to see the suit of broken foreign armor standing in the corner; one summer, he and Cal had dug up the remains of what old Numair said was a warrior from Jindazhen, though what he was doing on Tortallan soil was anyone’s guess.

Hanging on the wall in front of the desk, for Wyldon to see whenever he looked up, was one of Keladry’s griffin bands, golden and protective, just like her.

“I have something for you.”

Lance blinked. “A gift?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t expect you to get me anything, Father.”

“I know.”

Wyldon lifted a long package off the desk. It was neatly tied in violet silk. Lance awkwardly accepted it and nearly fumbled it; it was much heavier than it looked. Feeling his father’s eyes on him, he carefully unwrapped it.

It was a sword, the finest he had ever seen.

The sheath was plain black leather, but someone had cleverly stitched a small crest of Cavall in red, with a blue-gray owl spreading its wings over it. He instantly recognized it as Mistress Lalasa's fine work. Under the cross-guard was the emblem of Raven Armory.

Swallowing heavily, Lance slowly drew the blade. It hissed. He held it out before him, slack-jawed as it caught and reflected the light. It was the tempered blue of costly Yamani steel.

“It’s from the same mine that made your mother’s,” Wyldon said evenly. “I would have gotten the steel from Raven Armory’s own mines, but Keladry persuaded me to search for Yamani metal. I see by your face she was right in changing my mind.”

“I,” Lance began, and could say no more.

There was a long silence.

“My father was not an affectionate man,” Wyldon finally said. “Neither am I. But I think I can forget myself long enough to say that I’m proud to call you my son and I always will be. You are a good man, Lancelot. You will not let the realm down and I know you won’t let me down.”

Tears blurred Lance’s vision. Ashamed, he quickly bowed his head to gather his emotions. The burning, choking sensation in his throat eased and he controlled himself enough to look back up. His father was gazing pointedly out the window, as though in deep thought.

“Thank you, Father,” he whispered. “I learned so much from you—you’re the kind of knight I want to be.”

Wyldon looked at him sharply then, the strangest expression on his face. “I think you’ll be greater than any knight Tortall has yet seen,” he said, very quietly. “But that I am the knight you would model yourself after—that is a compliment I have never deserved. Thank you.”

He reached out a hand and Lance grasped it. It was warm and calloused and identical to his own. His father was old now, stiffer and slower, his scar and arm paining him far more often than it used to, but he was as brave as the day he knelt before Roald and for the first time in his life, perhaps, Wyldon lied.

Lance would not be the greatest knight in Tortall. There was one knight he would never surpass. _Father, you will always be invincible_. 

Wyldon released his hand and brushed by him, briefly touching his shoulder before moving on. The door closed behind him with a quiet click. 

Lance stroked the blue-veined sword. It was cool and deadly beneath his fingertips.

“I dub thee Excalibur,” he whispered. “We have work to do.”


End file.
